


Collide

by RainbowObsidian



Series: Grumpy Fucks and Mouthy Assholes [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Happy fucking birthday Zan, M/M, best friends slash brothers not boyfriends, enemies to best mates, jeong bro, that was a joke. Adam's bike isn't mentioned once, tw anxiety attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowObsidian/pseuds/RainbowObsidian
Summary: Ronan Lynch could count on three fingers the things his father had taught him, and one of them was how to be a grade A asshole. The second was how to tell a fucking good story. And the third was how to drive cars. How to really drive cars - stick, of course; the more horsepower the better.Whether these were worthwhile life lessons or not depended entirely on the situation. All three had gotten Ronan into more trouble than he cared to catalogue. And all three had led him to Andrew Minyard, which was, of course, a very, very good thing.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Ronan Lynch & Andrew Minyard, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Series: Grumpy Fucks and Mouthy Assholes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197398
Comments: 23
Kudos: 110





	Collide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justadreamfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadreamfox/gifts).



> Susan, Zann, My Dream Fox, ZANDREW.
> 
> Thank the gods for Stiefvater and Sakavic. Thank the gods for instagram and fanfic and whiskey and moleskines and weddings and yoga. Thank the gods for Andreil and Pynch. 
> 
> Thank the gods for Ronan and Cabeswater and the time-space fuckery that means that - oh look! It’s November 2020. 
> 
> So.
> 
> Even though  
> the best fall down sometimes  
> the wrong words seem to rhyme  
> the stars refuse to shine
> 
> I thank the gods daily for you. The Minyard to my Josten. My dear, delicious, incredible friend.
> 
> Happy birthday, Dreamy x
> 
> ***
> 
> Thanks be to Gabi for rooting for me and pulling on your beta cap, and to Hedgie and Marie for your enthusiasm x

Niall Lynch was a shit father in most of the ways that count. He was rarely home. He drank, he lied, he took risks large enough to threaten his family’s livelihood. He took risks large enough to threaten his family’s lives. 

Ronan could count on three fingers the things his father had taught him, and one of them was how to be a grade A asshole. The second was how to tell a fucking good story. And the third was how to drive cars. How to really drive cars - stick, of course; the more horsepower the better. 

Whether these were worthwhile life lessons or not depended entirely on the situation. All three had gotten Ronan into more trouble than he cared to catalogue. And all three had led him to Andrew Minyard, which was, of course, a very, _very_ good thing. 

Six months before his 18th birthday, Ronan had come home from school to surprise his mom and instead discovered the house ransacked and both of his parents murdered. He’d spiralled of course - what abruptly orphaned seventeen year old with a penchant for trouble and limited external support wouldn’t? - and when he hit rock bottom he did so spectacularly, with all of his father’s lessons woven through the fibre of his grief. 

Bored, drunk, alone, _lonely_ , Ronan had been wandering aimlessly around town, sneering at anyone who dared to make eye contact, strung tight like a guitar string on the verge of snapping. Everything constricted, held together through sheer force of will alone - but only just. He’d dabbled in theft the last few months, not through a need for _things_ (his parents’ estate ensured he would never want for anything) but through a need to _feel_. The first time he tucked a packet of cheddar and sour cream crisps inside his jacket he’d been bored and looking for trouble, and was surprised when he’d felt the first whisper of thrill that he'd gotten away with it. Each time he stole something else - something bigger - the thrill grew. Thrill was a fickle thing though; a flash of lightning in the otherwise empty sky of his emotions. Bright; charged. Temporary. 

(Ronan didn’t realize he’d walked so far to the edge of town. He didn’t remember getting there.) 

He’d never stolen a car before. He didn’t mean to take it far, didn’t mean to cause any damage, didn’t mean to make any trouble. He just wanted to know if he could. How it would feel. He’d dreamed a single pleasant dream amid a year and a half of nightmares, woven a tightly bound yarn in his head involving an incognito midnight loan where he drove off into the night: undetected, unpursued and unconcerned. _Roads opened up before him, wind in his hair, gear shift like an extension of his arm, foot and clutch as one. Part human, part machine, Dream Ronan owned the night and then returned the car to its unsuspecting owners by morning - with a tank full of gas._ He wanted to know if he could translate the sensory vibrancy of this unexpected dream story to the textureless, grey fabric of his existence. 

(He’d been sober in his dream.)

He saw the GS at the gas station. He saw its owner walk inside to pay for fuel. 

(He saw his opportunity.) 

He saw the tree looming in front of him. Saw the smoke billowing from under the hood. Saw the airbag in front of his face, and, as his attention narrowed further, he saw the hand holding the knife that he could now _feel_ pressing between two ribs on his left side. 

“Give me one good reason not to knife you here and now, you fucking asshole.” 

Ronan looked at the guy, pleading and said, “Jesus, _fuck_ , do it please and I’ll die a scared and happy man.”

“I hate that word.”

“Fuck?”

“Please.”

“Noted,” Ronan grimaced, though he relished the feel of the point that had punctured his clothes and was now in contact with his skin.

“Why would you die scared _and_ happy?

“ _What?_ ” 

“Answer the question, asshole and I’ll make this quick.” 

“This is the first time I’ve felt anything in a year.”

He felt the weight of the other guy’s gaze raking over him slowly from head to toe around the mess of airbag, and then: “Why?” 

In a dusty corner of his mind, Ronan remembered clocks melting, as the surrealism of this moment unfolded before him. “You gonna get this over with or are we gonna get to know each other first?” Ronan said, and looked properly at him then, absurdly taking the time to check him out in return. _When in Catalonia,_ he thought _._ The guy was short - shorter than he’d looked from the other side of the gas station - and built. Objectively good looking if you took in his stylishly scruffy, ashy blond hair, and black-rimmed hazel eyes that flecked gold in the interior car light. His face was blank though, eyes empty, detached; Ronan recognised apathy and wondered briefly what this guy did to make himself feel. Holding someone at knifepoint didn’t seem to be causing him any grief, nor any joy either. Ronan was surprised to find that he could simultaneously find someone attractive and terrifying. _Interesting_ , he thought. And then, _fuck it,_ because he’d clearly hit rock bottom and nothing was sacred anymore. “I mean normally I’d suggest we check out a dusty old bookstore or hike in the mountains first but if you’re not going to kill me with that knife I can think of something better you could do with your hands.”

“Interesting,” Blond Guy smirked, as if reading Ronan’s mind, and Ronan felt the knife point shift away slightly. “You think I’m gonna jerk you off after you flogged and crashed my car?”

“Daddy’s car don’t you mean?” Ronan sneered, sharp and cutting, as if daring the knife to retaliate in kind. 

“Fuck you. I bled for every penny of that money.” Ronan knew he’d touched a nerve as he felt the blessed cold point of the blade pressing closer again to his skin.

“I think if you were going to knife me you’d have done it by now,” he said, as he stared the blond down and he was pushing, _pushing_ , seeing what this guy was made of, sick of being in this in-between life, wanting to get the moment over with, in whichever direction it was headed. 

There was a long, dramatic sigh and Ronan felt the eye roll more than he could see it. The pressure in his side eased completely as the knife disappeared and this time when he sensed Blond Guy’s gaze it was assessing, curious. “You got a name, thief?”

“Lynch”, Ronan offered, and though it hurt, he felt himself puff up with pride all the same. The Lynch family name carried weight around town, even if (or maybe because) his father had been an asshole. 

“Okay Lynch, can you get out of the car? Or are you hurt?”

He could, and so he did. How he could walk away in one piece when the car looked like that was a miracle. Ronan wondered if the night was actually a vivid dream that just hadn’t committed to nightmare yet. He stretched his arms over his head, then twisted this way and that, cracking his spine. Shook out his legs. Shook out his arms, poked gingerly at his face where it smarted from the impact of the airbag and marvelled at modern technology that facilitated survival after such a collision. They walked back to town to call a tow, neither talking but clearly comfortable in the silence.

Until suddenly it wasn’t comfortable anymore. Ronan felt his breath start to hitch and his vision soften and blacken around the edges. Adrenaline, his brain supplied. And panic. The adrenaline of the accident was morphing into panic, and it felt similar to how he’d felt after he’d found, well, after he’d found, he’d found, _fuck_ , after he’d found- 

Panic was bearing down on him like a freight train and there was nothing he could do to stop it, nothing he could do to make his legs move, nothing he could do to avoid the impending carnage. He sat abruptly in the gutter, willing himself to breathe, willing his heart to slow, but he couldn’t remember how to breathe, he couldn’t remember how to slow, he was being buried alive by white noise, white noise was pouring into him through the bright light of the engine as it sped towards him, burrowing directly into his brain and it was roaring, it was roaring and he couldn’t control anything, he couldn’t feel his body, he couldn’t escape, he was going to die. He was going to fucking die on the train track, he was -

He felt a hand on the back of his neck, warm and solid, grounding him. He was alive. “Lynch, I need you to breathe. _Breathe_. One, two, three, four,” and the voice was warm and solid, settling him. It was alive. “Count with me now. Breathe in for one, two, three, four. Good. Breathe out for one, two, three, four.” Ronan followed the instructions, tethering himself to the voice with desperate tendrils, barely holding on. “Again: one, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.” Gradually, his breathing slowed. Gradually he felt his heart rate calm. 

“Good,” he heard again. “Now, what can you feel?”  
  
“I can feel your hand on my neck -” and as it began to lift, “- no, leave it man, it helps. I can feel the wind on my face. I can feel my body.” 

“What can you hear?”

“I can hear your voice. I can hear a dickhead driving by playing Bulgarian doof doof.”

“What can you see?”

“I can see your Docs. I can see the pothole.” He looked up, allowing his eyes to shift focus to the distance. “I can see the lights from WaHo.”

He took another deep breath in, leaned back on his hands and exhaled to the sky.

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen, Lynch. We’re going to walk down to that WaffleHouse and you’re going to buy us some waffles.”

“I hate waffles.”

“You need sugar. And besides, you just crashed my car; _I_ need sugar. Don’t you even fucking _think_ about denying me right now.” 

“Thanks man,” Ronan said as he was being offered a hand to stand. “I feel like a street urchin down here in the gutter.” And then, because it was weird and somewhat discomforting, “Why are you being so reasonable about this anyway?”

“Fucked if I know,” came the huffed reply. “Don’t make me regret not knifing you when I had the chance.”

Blond Guy was right, Ronan did need sugar. And the waffles were surprisingly good. He didn’t really hate waffles, it’s just that they reminded him of his mom, and these days he hated anything that took him back in time without actually being able to take him back in time. 

They ate in comfortable silence and then, when their plates were clean and it was just about time for things to get awkward, Blond Guy said “How ‘bout you buy me another hot chocolate and then you can tell me about your scars.”

“My - what?”

“Your scars. Tell me some truths, Lynch, it’s the least you can do.” 

Ronan was half way out of his seat when that same strong hand reached out and grabbed at his arm, tethering him once again. “I could have called the cops on you the second I saw you peel out of the gas station in my car, you asshole. I could have called the cops when you were tangled in the airbag, I could have called the cops when you were having a panic attack on the side of the road. That car was my fucking pride and joy and you stole it, then drove it into a fucking tree. I’m happy to call the cops though, if you’d prefer - I’ve got Pig Higgins on speed dial.”

Ronan felt his breath begin to hitch again, and reined it in with all he had. He slid back into the seat, agitated, and rubbed his hands up and down his face while he pulled himself together. When he finally thought he could look the other man in the eye, he took a deep breath and looked up. “Okay,” he said, even though the idea of talking about his scars made him want to open them back up and bleed away into nothingness. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Blond Guy confirmed.

“Okay,” he said, with resignation.

“Good. And then, as a reward for your honesty, maybe we can go some place quiet and I’ll show you what I can do with these hands.”

Ronan took a shaky breath in. Was that really what he wanted? “No.”

“No?”

“I’ll tell you about my scars. I’m not interested in your hands though. I don’t - I’m not - I - no. Just, _no_.”

“Okay,” Blond Guy said, and that was that. 

And so Ronan spoke of his scars, of his family, of his dreams that died with his parents and the nightmares that replaced them. He shared with painful vulnerability the one dream he’d had in eighteen months that hadn’t been a nightmare and how that story had woven its way into this night. He spoke of darkness and spirals and talons and beaks. He was surprised by how easy it felt, this outpouring of grief, to a perfect stranger. It all felt less like a nightmare and more like a film, and he moved about straddling the divide between presence and disconnect, experiencing every moment, but hovering over the top too, as if watching from above. 

When he’d run out of words, and the silence had stretched on, Blond Guy nodded and said “I’m Andrew.” And then, almost as an afterthought: “Minyard.”

Ronan raised an eyebrow, exhausted, and said, “Huh, I figured this was going to be one of those one night only power play things and I'd have to refer to you in my head as Blond Guy from now on.”

“Hmph,” Andrew scoffed, as he took a last swig of his drink, then swiped his finger around the lip of the mug to get the dregs of chocolate powder. “I did consider that, but I don’t like the scales to be out of balance. And Ronan Lynch -” Ronan startled at the sound of his first name, “- if you’re going to be buying me a new car, it’s only fair you know what name to have it registered in.” 

And there it was, Ronan realized. The reason this guy - Andrew - was being so reasonable. He’d probably recognised him the moment he pried the door open. And then he’d sat there and made him spill all his darkest secrets, made him think this was some kind of anonymous confessional when all the while he’d been collecting data, unpeeling the layers of Ronan’s soul, gathering all that was vulnerable and raw and real and making it impossible for Ronan to say no. He should never have given his surname - of course Andrew recognised it - that’s what he’d been wanting hadn’t it? On some level? Chest puffing with pride when he said his name, even though it hurt? Ronan’s head spun with the enormity of his idiocy and then he slumped forward on the table.

“Fuck,” Ronan muttered. He’d become utterly deflated, his head in his hands. “You’re just another asshole trying to get their hands on my father’s money.”

There was a pause, and he felt the weight of Andrew’s contemplation, heavy and unwavering. Ronan expected his response to be awkward, or defensive, or charged, but instead he said, quietly, “I have scars too.” His voice was cracked and vulnerable, and Ronan couldn’t help but look up at him. “I know nightmares and talons and spirals and darkness.”

And then they looked at each other, and didn’t say a word, but what passed between them was recognition, and recognition and _recognition._

“It’s been good to meet you, Andrew,” Ronan said, standing and rapping his knuckles twice on the table between them. “I’ll meet you here tomorrow and we can go find you a new car.”

Andrew nodded back at Ronan. “You too, Lynch.”

Ronan, despite his faults, never lied, and so the following morning he’d met Andrew, and bought him a car. That should have been the end of it; they were square, there was nothing left to settle. But somehow one hour turned into four, became evening, and suddenly they’d spent the day driving fast cars and eating fast food and wearing easy silence like a well-loved hoodie. Ronan said, “I’m so sick of eating shit food,” and Andrew said “I think I wanna learn how to cook,” and two years later they’d graduated community college and opened their own cafe and were the brothers they’d never had and didn’t know they needed. 

***

Andrew sits at the lights, revving the Mas, balancing the clutch and accelerator with precision in first gear as he smirks through the passenger window at the driver of the white Mitsubishi. He’s been dragging Kavinsky off for years, and even though they should have grown out of their boyish ways a decade ago, they still have a crack every time K is back in town. Ronan’ll be pissed he’s missed this: the only person he likes street racing better than Kavinsky is Andrew himself, and given the brothers are pretending to be responsible adults now, they race much less often than they used to. 

He takes a steadying breath, fully immersing himself in this moment. Clutch and brake are in perfect balance, and his hand is loose around the gear stick. He smiles in anticipation and watches the opposing lights, waiting for the count down from three, two, one - that magical moment when his light turns green and he can take off from the line. He loves how, despite the fact that the cars are also ten years older these days, Andrew, Ronan and Kavinsky race with as much enthusiasm now as they had when they were twenty one - even if the stakes are somewhat lower. Pride, honor and first break rights at the pool table at Nino’s shouldn’t be as appealing as it is. If his younger self had known he’d get so excited about knocking balls around in a shitty pizza place he’d be mortified. Andrew fully acknowledges he is getting soft in his old age. 

As the light switches green Andrew drops the clutch, nails the accelerator and powers from the lights. Deft fingers flick the transmission to second, he feels the car growl below him, around him, and then at the perfect moment he shifts to third. Kavinsky _still_ hasn’t mastered that change no matter how many times they give him shit for it. But then, despite his rubbish driving, somehow K is pulling ahead. Andrew looks down at the tacho and sees the revs slowing even though the pedal is still plastered to the floor of the car; lights flash on the dash and then the car decelerates so suddenly he has to pull hard onto the shoulder. Kavinsky is long gone and there’s something wrong with his fucking car.

“Shit,” he mutters, punctuating the sound with a fist to the steering wheel. The Mas has never let him down before. And it’s certainly never done whatever it’s doing now. “Shit. Shit. _Shit.”_

He flicks the hazzards on, gets out of the car and walks around to lean against the passenger door. Pulls out his phone to call Ronan but there’s no answer, because of course there isn’t, it’s Ronan. He rings again. And again. “Pick up the phone you shit,” he says, glaring at the back of a truck that just drove by _way too fast_ and _way too close_ for an industrial road, even if it is on the outskirts of town and he’d just been doing twenty over the speed limit himself. He’s never met anyone before that has such an aversion to cell phones, and despite Andrew’s best efforts to bully him into submission, one of the things Andrew likes best about Ronan is how he won’t - _can’t_ \- be bullied into anything. He’s stubborn as a bull. Ronan’s voicemail taunts a single word: _Lynch_ , and Andrew hangs up without leaving a message. It’d be fine if Ronan was at the cafe, he could just call there, but he’s running errands in Columbia and without his phone he’s a ghost. 

His phone beeps a few times, messages from Kavinsky: _you’re losing your touch, old man,_ and then a photo of two beer bottles propped on the edge of the pool table, and _it’s getting warm, grandpa._ He curses when the 10% battery warning pops up on the screen, his ancient iPhone is finally showing its age with a 50% drop in the last half hour. Andrew itches for a cigarette, digs into his back pocket with years-old muscle memory and laments the responsible adult factor when he comes up empty. There’s no chance in hell he’s telling K what’s happened; he’ll never live it down. He thinks about who else he could call and for a brief moment wonders if he might have more luck identifying potential rides if he wasn’t such an asshole to everyone he knows. He’s about to swallow his pride and call the shop - Robin is on, at least they’re a tolerable human and won’t give him shit - when he hears shoes scuffing on the gravel behind him. 

“If you’re waiting to pick up, you’re on the wrong street; it’s one block over on Third.”

Andrew turns towards the voice, eyebrow raised in a long ago mastered look that says _fuck off_ and _you’re an idiot_ and _who asked for your opinion_ all rolled into one and falters briefly as he takes in the spectacle in front of him. Said spectacle appears to have been running, if the short shorts and faded Beatles t-shirt is anything to go by, though it’s not the outfit that has made Andrew’s mouth go dry. It’s dark auburn hair, held back off his forehead with a ridiculous orange bandana. It’s cornflower blue eyes, feathered by long lashes, crinkling at the edges as he squints into the afternoon sun. It’s a round patch of unnaturally smooth skin scarring the cheek below his left eye, and pale, long narrow lines drawn across the right side of his face. He’s fucking gorgeous. Andrew resets his eyebrow before (he hopes) the man in front of him sees his nanosecond of weakness. A sexy smirk suggests perhaps he hasn’t been so lucky. He settles for “Fuck you,” instead and feels anchored in the safe harbour of his favourite retort. 

“Like I said, one block over,” the man responds, never taking his eyes off Andrew’s and now the smirk has spread into a wide grin. Andrew has to look away. 

He wishes again for a cigarette and attempts to fool his brain by inhaling through his mouth and exhaling through his nose but it doesn’t work. Rolls his eyes. “I’m not looking to pick up,” he says, because it feels like the most important detail to impart right now. And then, almost an afterthought, “My car broke down.”

“Hmmm,” says the man, looking more closely at the car now and Andrew feels an irrational desire to speak again, to return the focus in his direction. He restrains himself. “If it was older I’d be able to take a look and try figure it out for you; my friend’s Camaro breaks down all the time and we’re forever getting him out of trouble with it, but unfortunately this is about 30 years out of my expertise. I can run down to the garage for you though? Adam’s in the shop today - driving the boys mad - it’ll give him something to do.”

Andrew has no idea what he is talking about - what garage, who’s Adam, why would he _run_ over? Why would you run _anywhere_? “It’s fine, I’ll call a tow,” Andrew says, opening the passenger door and leaning over to grab his phone from the console. Presses his thumb to the home button and finds it coming up empty. He throws it onto the seat without a word and turns to look at the guy, who it turns out is already looking at him. “Look, um-?” he inclines his head in question.

“Neil,” the man says, and he doesn’t extend a hand, which Andrew appreciates. 

“-Neil. Can I borrow your phone?”

“Nope,” Neil says defiantly, as if daring Andrew to judge him, and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in amusement while he likely waits for the usual bewildered response. Andrew supposes most people don’t have a Ronan in their lives. Still, he bites, raising a dutiful eyebrow. 

“You don’t have a phone?”

“Well, I do, somewhere,” Neil grins again. “But not here. It’s possibly under a pile of laundry, and probably - well no, actually - definitely dead. I’m not much of a phone man.”

“I’m surrounded by idiots,” Andrew mutters, scratching the back of his neck and wondering how of all the people in Palmetto, constantly walking around like zombies staring at their devices, he has managed to meet the one other person who is apparently also averse to telecommunications. 

Neil looks around in exaggerated detail, as if cataloguing all of the idiots that are _not_ surrounding them and now Andrew feels like an idiot. 

“Last chance,” Neil says, “I’m happy to grab Adam, but I’m not gonna beg you for the privilege; I was enjoying my run.” 

Andrew scowls. If what Neil said is true, he could go one street over and probably find someone who would let him make a call for a twenty - it’d be the easiest money they earnt all day - but then he’d have to say goodbye to the fiery enigma standing in front of him. And Neil is exactly the kind of mystery Andrew is interested in solving. “I’ll come with,” he says, as he leans in to wind the windows up and grab his keys from the ignition. “But I’m not running anywhere. I gave that shit up when I was twenty.”

Neil nods and they head off in silence; a comfortable quiet that Andrew feels he should be wary of but bizarrely isn’t. Still, he’s painfully aware that Neil might vanish as quickly as he appeared, After a few minutes he steels himself, clears his throat and asks “Is Adam your boyfriend?”

Neil laughs then, and it’s wicked and teasing but also genuine and Andrew’s heart does a weird stutter and _who is this guy_? He could follow that laugh anywhere, he thinks. 

“Wow, straight to it hey? Not one for small talk?” Neil asks and Andrew shrugs. “Me neither. I don’t see the point really. I’m not one to engage with strangers.” And then he side-eyes Andrew and Andrew opens his mouth to state the obvious and it’s Neil’s turn to shrug as he says “I’m pretty intuitive I guess. I can judge a person and a space pretty quickly.” 

“Hmmm,” Andrew responds because he’s also not one to engage with strangers and yet here he is.

“Adam’s my… best friend? Brother? Of sorts. I don’t have a word for him, he just is.” Andrew nods. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” A pause. “Or a girlfriend. I’ve never really been one for relationships.” 

“No phones, no relationships. Got it.”

“I’m quite partial to names though, if you’ve got one? Then I won’t have to introduce you to Adam as Hot Car Guy.”

Because of course Andrew hasn’t given it up yet, it’s never that easy. And of course Andrew’s now wondering if Neil thinks _he’s_ hot or if he’s simply just taken with the Mas. He stops walking, desperately trying to process what Neil just said and he’s painfully aware that his face is heating up, blush spreading haphazardly in embarrassingly patchy splotches on his face and neck. Because he can’t blush like a normal person.

“Fuck,” Neil laughs again, turning and closing the sudden distance between them with a few graceful steps and of course his blush is a pretty tinge to the tips of his ears and perfect ridges of his cheekbones. “Let's pretend I didn’t say that. Though it _is_ a pretty hot car,” he winks and Andrew still doesn’t know which way this guy's intentions are swinging, but either way he’s pretty sure Neil is taking the piss. Neil waves his hand dramatically in a weirdly wonderful not-bow, proffers his hand towards Andrew and says “Hi. I’m Neil. My intuition tells me you’re a worthy detour. Would you do me the honour of no longer being a stranger so that I don’t make a dick of myself in front of my not-boyfriend when I introduce him to you and ask him to come take a look at your car?” 

And then Andrew huffs a laugh and the sensation surprises him with a rolling momentum that leads to him taking Neil’s offered hand, looking him in the eye and saying “Andrew,” like it’s that simple. And maybe it is. His eyes flick down to where their hands are joined, then back up to Neil’s face, now uniformly tinted a glorious shade of pink, holds his hand and gaze a moment longer than strictly necessary, then releases his hold. “Okay, Neil. Where is this garage, who is Adam and why the hell do I want him looking at my car if he’s just getting in everyone’s way?”

***

Andrew’s favourite ‘snooty shit classical music’ playlist is playing and Ronan’s whacking garlic for bruschetta when he hears Andrew at the door. He’s expecting him to be in a mood; when he’d gotten back to the cafe this afternoon and played Andrew’s voicemail he’d recognised a tone rarely directed at him, and thought - not for the first time - that he probably _could_ consider making more of an effort to take his phone with him. But that would require, you know, effort. And also, he just really fucking hates phones. Besides, Andrew stopped being bothered by his stubborn avoidance years ago. He’s not sure what he did to deserve that tone today, but he figures a little damage control won’t hurt. 

Andrew’s surprisingly placid when he rounds the corner to the kitchen, stopping only to dump his wallet and keys on the counter and pour himself a glass of red. It’s a little anticlimactic and strangely disappointing. Andrew is a sucker for simple food and strong flavours, especially when someone else is cooking and Ronan knows that no matter how pissed off Andrew is, garlic, basil and sun ripened tomatoes are guaranteed to soften his fury. It’s a flavour combination Ronan has used to his advantage on several occasions over the course of their friendship and a tactic he’s not above exploiting. As he watches Andrew take a mouthful of wine and head towards his room without comment, he wonders if it was a wasted effort tonight. He returns his attention to the chopping board and moves on to the tomatoes, then flinches as something hits him in the middle of his forehead. It’s the wine cork.

“Fucker,” Andrew says with stoic affection and a minute upward twitch to his mouth. “I’m onto you, asshole.”

By the time he returns from the shower, Ronan has set the outdoor table with the bruschetta and another bottle of wine. Andrew slides onto the timber bench and takes a slice of sourdough. Ronan feels the weight of his gaze for the entire time he takes to eat it, and after the third painfully slow, extremely well masticated mouthful, Ronan accepts he isn’t out of the woods yet. Eventually Andrew finishes, wipes a smear of caramelised balsamic from the corner of his mouth and takes a long sip from his glass. 

“I tried to call you today.”

“I know. I tried to call you back when I saw, but your phone was off.”

“It finally shit itself.”

“Ah. I’ve got one you can have,” Ronan says with a squint and a hopeful grin.

“Nice try, but no. I’ve got another one coming.” He takes another drink and then looks over Ronan’s shoulder to the giant magnolia in the yard. “The Mas _also_ shit itself,” he says. “Kavinsky kicked my ass.”

Ronan’s eyes widen. “Fuck, man, I’m sorry. On both accounts. But mostly Joe. Did he finally nail the shift from second to third? I hope you kicked his ass at snooker. Why didn’t you invite him in?”

“What?” 

Ronan realizes Andrew’s barely paying attention, still gazing off into the distance. “Kavinsky. Why didn’t you invite him in for beers? He dropped you home right?”

“The fuck would I do that?” Andrew asks, perplexed. 

“Didn’t you go to Nino’s? I figured that’s why you were home late.”

“My car’s fucked, Lynch. I spent the afternoon at a garage getting it seen to. Which you would know, if you answered your damn phone once in a while.”

“I thought you were just - shit man, I’m sorry. Do they know what’s wrong with it?” 

“I dunno - something to do with power steering apparently, but it didn’t feel like power steering. It just - lost power mid drag. _Fucking Kavinsky_.”

“Fucking Kavinsky,” Ronan agrees. “I wonder how many times we’ve said that over the last ten years.”

They slip into comfortable silence, watching the sunset deepen to the west as they share the plate of food.

“So how _did_ you get home?” Ronan asks after a while. 

“Just a guy. From the garage.” Andrew clears his throat and affects such an air of _cool_ that Ronan sees through it straight away. 

“A guy,” Ronan repeats. “From the garage.”

Andrew busies himself loading up his plate with bruschetta and pours Ronan more wine. 

“Drew.”

“Ro.”

“Look at me.”

Andrew looks up and holds Ronan’s gaze defiantly, though he must be able to feel the warmth of splotchy discoloration across his face and neck that Ronan can see clear as day. It is the deliciously rare yet utterly undeniable equivalent of a blush. Andrew is blushing. 

“A stranger?”

“Shut up, Ronan.”

“Andrew. You’re blushing.”

Andrew narrows his eyes at Ronan and lifts his middle finger off his glass, aiming it in Ronan’s direction.

“Does the stranger have a name?”

“Fuck you.”

“How long have we known each other?” Ronan asks, grinning around the glass as he brings it to his mouth. He’s enjoying this very much. Predictably there is no response. “Twelve years,” he says. “Twelve years, Andrew. Over a _decade_ we’ve known each other and in all that time I am the _only_ stranger you have ever shared a car with, and given I’d just lashed out nearly six figures for it, it would have been rude to do otherwise.” 

“Uck oo” Andrew repeats, with a mouth very full of bruschetta. Ronan suspects some people might still find Andrew intimidating but there’s nothing intimidating about a five foot tall, blotchy-faced blond with a mouthful of fresh produce. Ronan waits as Andrew swallows, washing his food down with a generous quaff from his wine glass. He waits as Andrew wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. He waits, as Andrew opens his mouth to speak, pauses, closes it again. Goes and gets a glass of water. 

When Andrew returns Ronan raises an eyebrow and smirks, and Andrew sighs, and then says, “His name is Neil.”

“A stranger named Neil,” Ronan teases. 

“A runner named Neil,” Andrew corrects, wiping the last of the balsamic off the platter with his finger. “And before you say anything, he - quote - ‘doesn’t do relationships’.”

“Not doing relationships has never bothered you before, Drew. That sounds like more of a me-concern than a you-concern.” 

“Yeah well, he also doesn’t do phones so you two would be a match made in heaven.” Andrew pauses. 

“Except?”

“Except. _Something_. I dunno Ro, there was something about him. However. No phone, so. _Shrug_.” 

Andrew’s eyebrows flicker up in the facial approximation of a shrug as he says the word - the ironic/not ironic mannerism he picked up back when he’d been casually hooking up with a local bartender a few years ago. Roland had been partial to emojis and those other ridiculous punctuation-turned-character-shaped things that some people thought were quirky or clever or whatever, and he and Ronan had spent one particularly drunken night hanging shit on Roland from the privacy of their living room. The Roland novelty had worn off after that. 

“He’s a mechanic though right? You know where he works.”

“His _Adam_ is a mechanic,” Andrew corrects. “At Boyd’s. You ever been there? I’ve never heard of it. Neil just tinkers with his friend’s Camaro from time to time.”

“Who’s Adam?”

“His _you_ I think. Best friend slash brother-not-boyfriend.”

“Did he say that?”

“Right before he said nor-girlfriend, not one for relationships.”

“So just a friendly fella then.”

“Hmm,” Andrew contemplates. “I don’t think so. He’s… he says he’s a good judge of character.”

“So he gave _you_ a lift home? What kind of fucked up criteria did he base that on?”

Andrew smirks. “Right?” Ronan watches as Andrew thinks about what and how much to say next. “He has… scars. On his face and - I think he’s a bit like us actually.”

“Jesus, Minyard, is he another Robin? Do you want to adopt him?”

“Hmmm,” he responds again, noncommittally this time, eyes darting away, and _look,_ there’s those splotches again. 

“So adoption is _not_ what you have in mind for him, hm?” Ronan grins. 

“Did I mention fuck you?” Andrew says, pushing away from the table and taking his wine glass with him as he goes. He pauses at the French doors that lead back to the kitchen. “Speaking of Robin, I swapped to their prep shift in the morning and I appear to be without a car. You can get up and drive me, or leave your keys on the counter when you go to bed. I don’t care which.”

“Take the Beemer,” Ronan says, shifting in his seat to pull his keys out of his pocket, then throws them at Andrew’s head. 

Andrew catches the keys without fuss. “Oh, and by the way,” he says, “I gave Boyd’s your number since my cell’s dead, so make sure you have your fucking phone with you and switched on tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”

***

Ronan wakes in a foul mood. Sleep has been something of an enigma since he and Andrew had had the bright idea of cutting back on alcohol and behaving more like adults, and even the few glasses of wine he’d had the night before hadn’t been enough to tip him over the edge to sleep. He tossed and turned for hours before finally falling asleep sometime around four and now wakes, hot and sweaty from a nightmare. As he rolls over to check the time on his phone he feels the unwelcome pull of muscle tension snap down one side of his neck and over his shoulder. Ronan is generally unfit for human consumption prior to nine a.m., and this morning’s cricked neck on the back of last night's woeful sleep is enough to make him downright unbearable. He feels so goddamned awful and Andrew used the last of the coffee beans and his neck fucking hurts and they’re out of ibuprofen and fucking fuck, _fuck_. He mutters a colourful litany of curse words on his way from the kitchen to the bathroom and for once can’t even find it in himself to be impressed by his expletive creation.

He takes a long, hot shower, and though he’s still hot and dehydrated from sleep, the heat of the shower melts away some of the tension in his neck. He figures he’ll swing by the drugstore on his way to work to grab some Advil, since apparently drinking is frowned upon prior to noon, and then remembers that Andrew has his fucking car. He cuts the water and ignores his towel on the rack, then walks straight out into the rest of the house. He rubs his hands over his head a few times, the velvet fuzz of hair creating a misted spray that joins the drips of water still pearled on his shoulders. It drives Andrew mad when he doesn’t dry off before leaving the bathroom - walking wet footprints over the floorboards, naked as the day he was born - but Ronan relishes the way air-drying cools him down and wakes him up simultaneously, especially when he feels as washed out as he is right now. He’s not expected at the cafe til noon but he’s desperate for caffeine, so figures he’ll head over now and grab his car, hit up the drugstore then kill time for a couple hours. 

The walk to the cafe is an easy twenty minutes and despite his best intentions to stay cranky, the walk eases his neck and his bad mood until both are humming in the background, present but less pernicious. He calls ahead and collects his coffee and keys a few minutes later. Finds a brown paper bag of freshly cooked and perfectly salted artisan popcorn in the center console of his car. Sends up a silent prayer of thanks for being known. 

He sits a moment in the driver's seat, enjoying the feel of the engine purring beneath him. Thinks he probably could have been a little more sensitive towards Andrew because God knows he’d be a bleeding mess if something happened to his car - especially mid-race with Kavinsky. He thinks he might see if Joe’s around town still but when he leans over to grab his cell phone from the opposite seat he’s reminded of why he came out in the first place. Curses and drives like an old man to the drug store, feeling every one of his shoulder checks as he goes. 

Ronan grabs a basket and begins indiscriminately throwing things in. Advil. Tylenol. Tiger Balm. Heat packs. He probably doesn’t need it all but he can’t figure out what he _does_ need so he just goes with everything. He's making his way toward the front of the store when he spots a shelf with spikey balls, foam rollers and a weird contraption that looks like a large kitchen tap fitting with handles, that allegedly helps the user with self massage. It looks like a handy weapon at any rate. He grabs one of those and a spikey ball, then turns back to the counter and takes a moment to appreciate the dust-brown hair and long lean back of the guy in front of him in the queue. He has an asymmetrical undercut and a single ring through his upper left ear. A smattering of moles on the right side of his neck disappear beneath the collar of his shirt. Ronan finds the elegant lines of his head, neck and shoulders mesmerising. 

“I said _next please_ ,” the girl behind the counter says, loud and patronising, and it’s clear it’s not the first time she’s called out. He does his best not to sneer at her as she pops her gum and cuts her eyes towards the guy now beside him at the counter, as if to say _can you believe this guy?_ while subtly turning her body towards him and puffing up her chest. Ronan makes a concerted effort to _not_ follow her gaze towards him and wonders if she realizes how obvious she is being. He wonders how obvious _he_ was being a moment before. Quite, probably. Never mind. He scoops up his things without waiting for a bag and walks out. Heads home the long way to avoid pot-holes and speed bumps, pops some pain relief and takes a nap.

A couple hours later Ronan is back at the cafe, putting the machine through its paces. He’s in a mood again, and justifiably so, he thinks. The nap did nothing to lessen his fatigue and one of the new wait staff walked _in_ the swinging exit door, collecting him in the process and causing his neck to flare up again. To add insult to injury, the egg delivery didn’t arrive this morning so as soon as Ronan returned, Andrew took the car and his frustration and headed over to WholeFoods to buy enough cartons to get them through the lunch rush. Honestly it’s a wonder they have managed to keep a business open as long as they have, given that they’re a pair of grumpy fucks, but maybe their gruffness is part of the charm. Or maybe Palmetto has too many idiots and too few decent coffee shops. 

He sends Robin on their break and takes over on the till, handing a coffee off to a customer and grunting at the next person in line without looking up. 

"I'm happy to order from the cafe over the street if you guys don't have common decency on your menu," drips the sarcastic drawl.

"WaHo?" Ronan spits in disdain as he looks up and Christ, Jesus and the angels he's pretty sure the man standing in front of him is the one whose back and shoulders he was appreciating earlier. He cuts his eyes to his neck and confirms his suspicions. _Fuck,_ he thinks, and then _whatever_. In for a penny, and all that; he doesn't have the energy to try and backpedal right now. "I'm sure they've got some three hour old cat-piss drip filter they can serve up, if you'd prefer." He grins his sharpest grin, all teeth and bad attitude because fuck it he's ruined his chances of a civil conversation now anyway. 

The guy's face does a complicated thing. Eyebrows shoot up for a fraction of a second, then return somewhat crumpled towards each other for a moment before returning to their previous place. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, appears to reconsider and after a brief moment of thought says, "I'll have a latte to go, _thanks_."

And then because apparently Ronan is a dick who can't help himself and just has to have the last word, he mutters "Last of the big time spenders, huh?" under his breath.

"You know what? Fuck you _and_ your coffee, asshole." 

And there's that elegant neck and back again, flushing red and walking away.

***

It's 4pm and they still haven't heard about the fate of the Maserati. Andrew knows he is slowly combusting from the inside out; he can feel the way his steadily smouldering back burn is now bordering on a full-blown forest fire. Ronan has the audacity to suggest he calls Boyd’s for an update but to be honest, he is in no state to receive bad news over the phone - and to be frank, Ronan should know better, so he doesn’t even grace the suggestion with a response. Finally - _finally_ \- Ronan’s phone rings and Andrew makes him answer it even though he’s standing right there. Ronan does a lot of listening and not much talking; by the time he hangs up, Andrew feels so nauseated with anticipatory grief that he can’t even put into words the slander he wants to sling at him for the unconscious way he gets all doe-eyed and tongue-tied on the phone whenever he speaks to someone with a smooth-as-honey southern drawl. Andrew squares his shoulders, readies himself and nods goodbye to Robin as he and Ronan go. He is grateful to have his brother there as moral support, even if he knows full well that Ro’s only coming because there’s no way in hell he’d let him drive the BMW in this state. 

They drive in silence; Ronan is not forthcoming with information and Andrew wouldn’t want to hear it from him anyway. When they reach the garage Ronan kills the ignition and turns to face him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

Andrew shakes his head and gets out of the car alone. 

He heads inside the small office space and peers past the guy on the desk into the workspace beyond. It’s a busy garage; there’s probably half a dozen cars out back that he can see just through the doorway - and just as many guys working on them - though a quick scan comes up empty for the one man he’s hoping to see. 

“Help you?” ‘Rusty’ says, slow and easy, with a smile that incorporates every feature on his wrinkled face. He’s tall and wiry, all joints and sinew; he must be eighty five in the shade.

Andrew is grateful that most of his emotions are invisible to the naked eye so he doesn’t have to hide his disappointment that there’s no sign of Neil today. They’d had an easy conversation yesterday, with plenty of also-easy silences, but aside from finding out that _In My Life_ is his favourite Beatles song, and that he runs for pleasure, like some kind of heathen, Andrew acknowledges that he knows next to nothing about him. Although he’s pretty sure nothing would come of it, Neil is interesting enough that Andrew finds himself wishing he could get to know him better, and in the face of what he’s pretty sure is about to be bad news, he thought that seeing Neil might be some kind of silver lining. 

“I’m here for the Mas, I dropped it off yesterday. With Neil.” Andrew hopes he looks more casual than he feels.

Saying Neil’s name out loud here, in this space where he is known, feels charged somehow, though Rusty doesn’t appear to notice - or care. “That your car? She’s a beauty. I’ll just need to see some ID then I’ll go grab Morris to run over the details with you.”

“Morris? I thought Adam was-”

“Adam has a real job, he just comes and annoys the shit out of us most days. Speaking of, he should be here soon; usually stops by on his way home to poke his nose in and make sure we don’t forget his pretty face. Pretty difficult since he owns the joint now.” A gnarled hand reaches out, stained dark with decades of grease, two yellowed fingernails the telltale sign of a lifelong smoker.

Andrew hands over his ID, then pockets it again when Rusty is happy. He looks around the office space as he waits for the mechanic, though he sees nothing. He feels jittery. Is desperate for a smoke. Feels the pinky and thumb of one hand drumming in staccato on his thigh. Wishes he’d brought Ronan in with him after all. Then he thinks of Neil and his scars and wonders what kind of life lead to those kinds of marks, how deep the roots of trauma have dug into him. He thinks of his own long, silvery lines - so many cuts, so many traumas - that live beneath and between the striking tattoo on his forearm. Two foxes, four ravens; hopeful and ominous, bold and bright and dark. Proud and guarded, protected by the forest, projected by the moon. All of his contradictions, all of his trauma, all of the ways he has survived, clawed his way to the surface, created a life. Every single day.

Perspective smacks him in the face. _It’s just a fucking car._

And then Morris appears and everything is fine... _we had to get a part over from Columbia, hence the delay… sorry we should have called earlier… the apprentice is off sick, Rusty can’t work the computer, we’ve been busy as a one-armed bricklayer…_

Andrew pays his account and heads back out to Ronan while he waits for his car to be driven around front. The BMW is empty. He glances around and sees Ronan making his way over towards a ridiculous orange Camaro that is parked off to the side garage. For all his love of the Beemer, he’s a sucker for old American muscle cars. He approaches slowly but purposefully, doing his best effortlessly entitled-make it look like you have every right to be there-thing that gives away his filthy rich upbringing. Andrew follows.

“'73 Camaro...” Ronan says to the pair of legs that are protruding from under the back of the car. “You mind if I take a look?”

“Sure -” there is a grunt as presumably something is loosened or tightened with force, “- I’ll be a few minutes here.” Andrew watches as Ronan reaches one hand towards the roof of the car, a reverent look on his face as if reaching out to touch an ancient relic. “Keep your hands to yourself though - the boys spent ages polishing it and they’ll be pissed if there’s fingerprints on it before Gansey sees it.” Ronan stills and then the trajectory of his hand changes to hover over the roof, bare millimeters between his skin and the paint. He exhales and shakes his head slowly in wonder, then turns to look over his shoulder at Andrew.

“It’s so fucking beautiful,” he says, with gruff adoration. 

“It’s a fucking pig, is what it is,” comes the voice from the deep.

Ronan laughs at the blunt reply. “Do you know the owner?" he asks. "How come they always drive it like an old man?” 

“Gansey _is_ an old man, that’s why.” Legs lengthen and become torso and neck as the dolly and the human lying on top of it slide out from under the car. “He’s an old man in a young man’s- What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I came to pick up my car,” Andrew says, moving to stand protectively in front of Ronan, who has gone suddenly stiff and a few shades paler. “There a problem?”

“There won’t be if this asshole gets out of my garage.” 

“You must be Adam.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Andrew,” he says, nodding towards the road. “That’s my Mas Morris is driving round the front.”

“ _You’re Andrew?_ ”

Andrew sneers and opens his arms in a _what of it?_ kind of way. 

“I just. Neil -.”

_Neil._

“Is that guy a friend of yours?” Adam asks, gesturing his head towards Ronan as he wipes grease from his hands with an old rag. Andrew turns to eyeball him and sees the way he stands now, staring at the ground with both hands shoved deep into his pockets. He notices how the just-seen-a-ghost pallor has been replaced by an ombre blush that is darkest near his collar and his ears, transitioning from magenta to pink. He turns back to Adam. Tall, lean, elegant Adam. Covered in grease and freckles, mouthy, with a smooth-as-honey southern drawl.

“Adam, this is Ronan. My - well. Your Neil. Though your hostility suggests you’ve already met under unpleasant circumstances.”

“Look, man, I’m sorry about today. You caught me at a bad time,” Ronan says, stepping forward and finally finding his voice. He scratches the back of his neck and does his best to look sheepish. 

“My...Neil?” Adam asks, looking between the two.

“Best friend slash brother-not boyfriend?”

“Huh. Are you as much of an asshole as he is?” Adam is blatantly ignoring Ronan and Andrew should feel sorry for him, but there’s a good chance that he deserves Adam’s antagonism. Also, his keys are weighing heavy in his hand and he’s itching to get behind the wheel and make sure everything is okay. 

“Worse.” He turns to go, spinning his keyring around his finger and shouldering Ronan as he goes past. Then he stops, gestures towards Ronan and says to Adam, “It’s okay if you want to stab him. I almost stabbed him when we first met and look at us now.” 

“Fuck, Andrew, shut up,” Ronan groans as he makes a beeline for the BMW.

Adam smirks and then says, “I think it’s more likely _you_ are the Neil in your relationship.”

“Tell him I said hi,” Andrew grins as he offers a two fingered salute. “I’ll see you at home, Ro.”

***

Andrew takes the long-route home, putting the Mas through its paces, making sure everything is just how he likes it. When he gets home he finds Ronan in the sunroom-come-library, sitting in his high-back leather chair with his feet up on the bay window. His computer is open on his lap and the music Andrew can hear _through_ Ronan’s huge noise-cancelling headphones suggests he’s still in a mood. He walks up behind him and knows Ronan has clocked him in the reflection of his screen by the audible eye roll he sends his way. 

“Come on, sad-sack,” Andrew says as he pulls one ear pad away from Ronan’s head. “Let’s go for a drive.”

***

Andrew sits at the lights, revving the Mas, balancing the clutch and accelerator with precision in first gear as he smirks through the passenger window at the driver of the white Mitsubishi. Beside him, Ronan grins first at Kavinsky then back at Andrew and says “Kick his motherfucking ass, Andrew. I’m thirsty.”

Andrew takes a steadying breath, fully immersing himself in this moment. Clutch and brake are in perfect balance, and his hand is loose around the gear stick. He smiles in anticipation and watches the opposing lights, waiting for the count down from three, two, one - that magical moment when his light turns green and he can take off from the line. He is going to flog Kavinsky, and then they’re going to Nino’s for beers and first break at the pool table.

As the light switches green Andrew drops the clutch, nails the accelerator and powers from the lights. Deft fingers flick the transmission to second, he feels the car growl below him, around him, and then at the perfect moment he shifts to third. Predictably Kavinsky messes up the change and Andrew feels the thrill of victory pulsing through his veins. Ronan yahoos and winds the windows down so he can flip Kavinsky the bird as they fly past. Andrew cranks the radio up, taps his fingers in time to _We Are Young_ , and drives them to Nino’s.

***

Joe texts Ronan before they’re even in the parking lot with some flimsy excuse about an early flight the next morning. Neither victory or Nino’s pizzas taste as good without someone to gloat at, but they’re here and they’re hungry and cold beers are cold beers. They push through the doors and past the host running people to tables and walk around the corner to the games room. The pool table is taken. Ronan watches as a short redhead breaks the racked balls with precision then looks up and grins over towards the bar. Andrew has stopped up short beside him, half in, half out of his jacket, and when Ronan follows the trajectory of his gaze his breath hitches as he takes in the face now turned towards them. The fluorescent light above the pool table illuminates silvery scars that traverse one cheek and a solid white patch of skin under his opposite eye. He doesn’t see Ronan falter though, because his eyes are locked on Andrew’s. After a moment where Ronan is pretty sure he can _see_ the electricity crackling between them, the guy’s face transforms as a delighted grin washes over it. He raises his drink in greeting, beckoning them over. 

“That wouldn’t be Neil, by any chance?” Ronan asks, watching as Andrew valiantly tries to remain solid but is practically melting beside him. 

“Come on,” Andrew says, tugging lightly on Ronan’s jacket and taking off toward Neil. 

He's leaning on his pool cue like some kind of Jude Law-come-Alfie, and Andrew’s going for cool indifference with both hands shoved deep in his pockets, but in a way that shows off both his pecs and his triceps through his fitted long-sleeved tee. Ronan guesses he has to make up for the ridiculous splotch-blush somehow. 

“Did you get a new phone?” Neil asks Andrew when he stops a couple of feet away from him, suddenly awkward.

“Did you charge yours?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I could see if it's still charged tomorrow when my new phone arrives.” The corner of Andrew’s mouth hitches in a small smile and his eyes are alight with something Ronan usually only sees in snatches and most people never witness. 

"Maybe I'll remember to check it," Neil responds with a quirk of his eyebrow and Ronan realizes then that Andrew is a lost cause. He is a sinking ship and there's not a rescue crew on earth that can save him. 

“Maybe,” Ronan interjects, “you could introduce me.”

Neil takes his eyes off Andrew for the first time since they arrived and assesses Ronan head to toe, though it seems more clinical than pervy.

“You must be the asshole friend.”

“You must be the stabby one,” Ronan retorts, and then his eyes flick involuntarily to Neil’s cheek and he recoils when he registers what he’s said to someone with what he’s pretty sure now are knife scars.

“It’s fine,” Neil says with a wave of his hand. “I’m Neil.”

Ronan exhales and says “Ronan. I’m - I really need a beer. Can I get you one?”

“I’m good.”

He makes his way to the bar and orders drinks for himself and Andrew. Today has been a _day_ and he doesn’t actually even feel like beer. He doesn’t feel like playing pool. He sure as hell doesn’t feel like third-wheeling. He feels like going home, falling into a beanbag and watching hours of _Shameless_. 

Ronan leans against the bar while he waits for the drinks and looks back over towards Andrew and Neil. He sees a now familiar figure with an asymmetrical undercut, elegant neck and long, lean back approach the table, pause, and then throw his head back briefly in what Ronan assumes is despair, before continuing over to Neil. Of course Adam is here. This is going to be awkward as all get out.

When he returns to the group, Neil and Andrew are having a very serious and utterly ridonculous conversation about everyone in the room ( _blue shirt, three o’clock, werewolf, definitely werewolf - waitress, corner table, the way she keeps her hair up with a pen? always prepared for a zombie attack - and see that guy? he turns into a sugar glider and hides in his person’s hoodie pocket eating goldfish crackers_ ) and Adam is ignoring them, resetting the rack like someone who's done it a thousand times before. He wonders why they've never seen them here until now. Adam's is not a forgettable face and though it may be irrational, Ronan finds his snark unbearably sexy. The way Andrew and Neil have fallen easily into each other’s company is interesting too. He hasn’t seen him so engaged with someone new since Robin came on the scene and well, they’ve already established that Andrew does _not_ want to adopt Neil. 

"I take it you two are sticking around?" Adam asks with disdain as he straightens and sees Ronan handing Andrew his beer. 

"I don't see your name carved on this table." 

"Right," Adam says, resigned, and passes Ronan a cue. "I hope you're better at pool than you are at customer service."

" _Arcuato vulnere acri formosus_ ," Ronan smirks around the mouth of his beer bottle. 

Adam chokes on his drink, then without missing a beat replies " _Caesar non supra grammatical_."

And then it’s Ronan’s turn to baulk and though he can feel the weight of Andrew’s gaze and hear Neil’s guffaw over his shoulder he only has eyes for Adam. 

He wilts dramatically over the edge of the pool table. “ _Cum mortuis in lingua mortua_.”

“ _Sola lingua bona est lingua mortua_ ,” Adam says with a wink, and suddenly _Shameless_ doesn’t seem so appealing after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can listen to Collide by Howie Day [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/5rwq6R0Uq0BngM3rdmCeNg?si=fr0Rx1z7Q3-YY0VGm9OpNw).
> 
> PS. If you've ever spoken latin or dragged someone off at the lights or owned a Maserati it is probably blatantly obvious that I have never done any of these things.
> 
> PPS. To save you Dr Googling my terrible latin, here are some translations for you which may or may not be accurate:
> 
> Arcuato vulnere acri formosus = beautiful and witty
> 
> Caesar non supra grammatical = Caesar has no authority over the grammarians
> 
> Cum mortuis in lingua mortua = with the dead in a dead language
> 
> Sola lingua bona est lingua mortua = the only good language is a dead language


End file.
